Heredity
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: For the prompt: Watson unknowingly has fathered a son during his travels. A son that, one day, shows up at Baker Street ...
1. Introduction

Summary: For the prompt: Watson unknowingly has fathered a son during his travels. A son that, one day, shows up at Baker Street ...

0o0

_The helix of his ear curls almost precisely thirty degrees over the scapha. The antihetical fold is nearly flat, a hereditary and defining feature. A particularly large antitragus completes the observational deduction as to the paternity._

"Sir?" The boy's voice was hesitant, but the timber was unmistakable. Add to that the coloring of the eyes ...

Holmes rubbed his nose. "Yes, Doctor Watson is home. I'll tell him you're here."

"But I haven't told you my name ... sir!"

Holmes closed the door in the middle of the boy's sentence and ambled back up the stairs. Watson, typically, was reading and looking smug about not having to answer the door. Holmes wondered how many seconds it would take for that smugness to disappear.

He took a preliminary guess of 'two'. "It's for you," Holmes said, picking up a beaker and examining one of the emulsions inside of it. Left in there a little too long by the looks of it. He'd have to reconfigure the amounts.

Watson flipped a page. "Who is it?"

"Your son," Holmes replied just as blandly.

The book fell from Watson's hand.

Ah. Incorrect. It only took _one_ second.

0o0

The only person who looked more terrified than the boy was Watson himself. He stared at him as if he were an apparition from another world, while the boy - named James - stared at the rug, hardly daring to move.

Holmes was set up as mediator, albeit unwillingly. He examined the letter from the boy's recently deceased mother, explaining the circumstances of his birth, all of which seemed in order, at least to Holmes who had deduced the boy's parentage at the door.

"Can we be sure?" Watson mouthed silently at Holmes. "Absolutely?"

Holmes nodded and cleared his throat. "So you are fifteen years old then, Master Watson?"

The boy looked up, his blue eyes huge, like a deer caught in an open meadow. "Yes, sir."

"And I suppose you are hoping that your father here might assist you in gaining a situation now that your preliminary education is through, am I correct?"

"That was my mother's dying wish, yes, sir," the boy said with only the tiniest hint of bitterness.

Watson winced, his face coloring. "Of course, I will do my duty toward you ... um ..."

Holmes found himself increasingly annoyed with Watson. Honestly, the fellow let his emotions just run _riot_ over his good sense far too often. "James. Your _son's_ name is James. For the love of heaven, Watson, pull yourself together, man. As for you, James, you are welcome to stay here until an apprenticeship is found, although I'm afraid we only have the settee for a bed. Still, you are young and that will most likely suit you as well as anything."

For the first time in the entire interview, the boy looked happy. "Thank you, sir," he said warmly, looking at Holmes with sudden affection. "And you as well ... Father," he said to Watson, almost as an afterthought.

A sour afterthought. Watson shrank back further and Holmes saw that this situation would have to be taken in hand with a delicate touch. "We'll need to inform Mrs. Hudson that an adolescent boy will now be dining here which means we'll likely be increasing our food purchases by triple the amount. Watson, I assume you'll be taking care of that?"

Watson nodded, looking abashed and somewhat beaten. He limped downstairs and James hung his head, his whisper heavy with sadness. "He doesn't want me here."

"Nonsense. He has no opinion of your presence one way or the other except that he's surprised by it," Holmes said crisply. "Your father is not the fastest weave in the loom but once the facts sink into his ponderous brain, you'll be surprised at the depth of his affection and loyalty."

James didn't look convinced, but he followed Holmes' instructions anyway, putting his valise in an empty corner near the settee. He was introduced to Gladstone and they immediately adored each other, as boys and dogs are wont to do.

Holmes told the boy that his chemical table was absolutely, utterly and completely off-limits, unless there was something he wanted Holmes to show him, which meant then they could experiment together. Later, while the boy wasn't looking, he hid away the bottles containing his ... 'medications'.

Watson returned a while later, still distinctly uncomfortable, even more so when he saw that James was already sitting cross-legged at Holmes' feet, listening to him expound on various explosives, with Gladstone's head resting on his knee.

"Mrs. Hudson says it's fine to have him here." Watson shook his head. "I mean, _you_ are welcome to stay here, James, as far as our landlady is concerned. She doesn't mind the extra cooking, provided we pay for it. Now ..." He paused, as James bent over Gladstone, scratching his ears closely. "I suppose we should discuss what you are interested in doing with your life."

Holmes made a face at him over the boy's head. "Perhaps we should let the lad settle in for at least one evening while he becomes used to his extremely changed circumstances."

"Of course," Watson replied sheepishly. The room was uncomfortably quiet after that until Holmes got up suddenly, shrugging on his coat.

"The beast is in need of walking." He grabbed Gladstone's lead and shook it at him. The dog happily ambled over. "I can do it myself," Holmes said firmly, waving off the frantic offers of both father and son to accompany him. "See you later this evening."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Watson to face his son alone.

He'd faced worse situations, he'd supposed. Hordes of enemy fighters, great deserts without end ... the fear of death by disease and injury. Still, there was nothing quite like this, the terror of inadequacy, especially when it mattered most.

He drew a deep breath. "I am sorry about your Mama."

James continued to stare at his hands ."She told everyone she was a widow. Only some of them believed her, so we were forced to move quite frequently," he said. He refused to meet Watson's gaze. "I made her life very difficult, but she cared for me anyway. I will do anything to respect her memory." _Even put up with you_, was the unspoken end of that declaration, Watson was sure of it.

"I did not know about your existence. If I did ..."

"You know now and are helping me. I appreciate that," James interjected. He looked far older than his fifteen years. Watson imagined how unpleasant his childhood must have been. "I will not bother you for a moment longer than necessary, I assure you."

"You ... you are not bothering me. I am merely surprised."

"That's what Mr. Holmes said you were."

Watson perked up. "What else did he say?"

"That you're not the fastest weave in the loom."

Watson's shoulders drooped. "Oh."

"But that once you accept the facts, you are very loyal and kind."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose that will be the most difficult part, for both of us I'm sure. Again I apologize to you, James for my youthful foolishness as I was only a few years old than you when I met your Mama. I should have inquired after her more closely but once I was shipped off to war, I'm afraid I became distracted."

James glanced up at him, rubbing his knees nervously. Watson noticed that his long, thin wrists hung out of his suit coat and he wondered if it were a hand-me-down or if the boy had just outgrown it. "Were you there for a long time?"

"Three years."

"It was suggested to me more than once that I join the military. Perhaps I should do that?" James asked, only to be cut off by Watson's loud exclamation.

"Absolutely not!" Watson cried suddenly, his fists clenching, making the boy blanch. He forced calm into his voice, even though he found himself shaking. "What I meant is that the army is more often the destroyer of lives than it is a viable occupation. You have so much more to offer the world than a human shield for the Crown."

The boy's eyes widened. "Was it so bad?"

Watson's lips pursed. He nodded. "It was a dreadful mistake. I have never recovered from the injuries I received there and I never will. I feel lucky to have escaped with my life. So if I may claim the right to beg anything of you, please do not consider service among your chief options."

James' expression softened with boyish sympathy. Youth, Watson thought, could be terribly forgiving. "I will not join, Father. There are many other things of interest to explore, if it pleases you."

"Thank you. You are obviously a fine young man and your Mama a strong soul for raising you such. Now, enough of such serious talk. Would you like to sample our landlady's cooking? I believe you might be in for a pleasant treat."

His son's - his _son's_ - eyes gleamed. Watson chuckled as he could almost see the unconscious licking of chops. "Oh, yes, sir. The sandwiches on the train were hardly anything at all. I had to eat five of them."

Watson smiled and held out his hand to help James up from the floor. Once clasped, he noticed for the first time that their fingers were nearly identical and wave of possessive joy sparked through his veins. iMy son/i. "Hopefully our larder will survive your ravages, for today at least. Come, let's have lunch and I'll tell you all about the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes."

"He's very interesting, Father."

"He's an obnoxious tit."

"Oh."

They looked at each other and laughed. This might end well after all. Maybe.

0o0o

end

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	2. Admiration

Summary: For the prompt: Watson unknowingly has fathered a son during his travels. A son that, one day, shows up at Baker Street ...

o0o

The boy was out with Holmes for most of the day, which did nothing but make Watson worry. Not that Holmes would intentionally put the lad in danger but Holmes had very little common sense when it came to matters of safety and appropriate pastimes for a very young man.

Watson tried not to pace the sitting room and limited his staring out of the window to once every six minutes instead of five. This went on for most of the late afternoon, straight until the evening. Watson was just about to burst out the door in a fit of fear when he heard lighthearted footfalls on the stairs.

"Father!" James cried, his eyes bright with excitement. "I wish you had seen it! Mr. Holmes was amazing!"

Watson's mouth turned down in a deep frown. "I've seen the 'amazing' Mr. Holmes in action many a time, son. So, what was it this time?"

Holmes cleared his throat and pretended to brush at the brim of his hat which hadn't been cleaned in years as far as Watson knew. "Nothing at all. Just a bit of pugilistic instruction. Quite pedestrian, really."

James, the poor innocent, shook his head wildly. "It wasn't pedestrian at all," he insisted, still flush about his cheeks. "Why he pounded that giant bloke straight into the boards! The entire place erupted and then another fight broke out in the stands, right where I was ! There was blood and yells and ..."

Holmes winced. "Er, James. Perhaps your father is a bit tired to listen to such dull tales right now. How about some warm milk instead? I'll go speak to Mrs. Hudson."

Watson felt every hair on the back of his neck stand up straight with annoyance. He grabbed Holmes' arm right before he made his escape. "Oh, no, don't go. Do tell me more, James. Particularly about the part where a fight broke out in the arena right where you were? Did you get hit?"

"I got cuffed a little, but then Mr. Holmes jumped out of the ring and started in on those fellows too!" James' face practically shone with awe. "And then we had a bottle ..."

"Of milk!" Holmes cried, trying to pull away from Watson's vise-like grip. "James, for the love of god, go to Mrs. Hudson and have her bring something up. Please!"

James blinked and nodded. "Oh, of course," he said, happy and oblivious to his father's barely controlled anger. "Be right back!"

There was a terrible moment of silence as Watson's squeezed Holmes' arm hard enough to leave fingerprints. "You," he snarled accusingly. "You took him to the Punchbowl."

"Watson, I can explain."

"And let him watch your horrible brawling."

"It's not brawling. It's bare-knuckle ..."

"And witness a riot. That he was almost injured in."

"No harm came to the lad. Look at him! He's right as rain!"

"Then you introduced him to liquor!"

"Malt beer. They give it to babies in certain countries, Watson! It's like candy, really."

Watson let go of Holmes and drew himself up, towering over him in a perfect picture of fury, his voice a hoarse, angry whisper. "My son is here less than a fortnight and already you've dragged him into your den of depravity! Fighting and riots and beer! He's a fifteen year old country boy who's never had a hint of wickedness in his life up to this point. Have you no shame at all, Sherlock Holmes?"

At this moment James peeked his head inside the door. "Mrs. Hudson is making tea. By the way, Father, I didn't mention the best part!" He held up a pair of notes. "I won two pounds!"

It was at that point Holmes ran for it, as Watson reached for his cane.

o0o

The best way to reduce Holmes' foul influence on the boy, Watson thought, was to take him under his paternal wing and keep him there, away from Holmes' presence as much as possible.

A walk in the park with Gladstone, first. Then some lunch at the coffee house and if he were good, as James always was when Holmes wasn't leading him down to the fiery pits of sin, a seat at the opera with his father.

It would be a pleasant, well-behaved, _civilized _time.

James followed along very gamely, although tugging at his cravat which Watson insisted he wear like any gentleman might. And no rolling around with Gladstone, there were muddy parts here and there and if they were going out again, he didn't want there to be polishing of shoes.

Eventually though the boy's face began to fall, then droop as the day passed. He grew positively morose at the idea of the opera which made Watson sigh. "All right, then, as it seems Puccini holds no interest for you, what would amuse you?"

James glanced up shyly. "What do you do for fun, Father? Besides the opera that is?"

Watson considered, trying to choose his words wisely. "Well, I enjoy reading but that's a solitary occupation. I write a little, but again, it's hard for two to enjoy that. Sometimes ..." He paused, not wanting to make a bad impression. "The music hall, but not that often. It can be a bit low-rent at times."

"Oh." James looked down into his coffee cup.

For the first time in his life, Watson felt quite old and more than a little bit jealous of how easily Holmes had entertained the lad. Still, it was more important the boy pursue things in the proper manner instead of ...

A shrill scream interrupted his thoughts. The entire cafe stood, along with Watson and James, watching in horror as a purse-snatcher engaged in a frantic tug of war with a young woman in the middle of the street holding desperately onto her purse, as carriages and horses veered to avoid them.

Without thinking, Watson ran out to her, his cane already in his left hand. He placed himself between the woman and her attacker before he drew the sword out and pressed the sharp tip to the thief's neck. "It's not worth it, I assure you," he cried, as all around, tilting carriages rattled past at to speed, unable to stop. "Let go and be off!"

The man hesitated but a second before releasing his grip and running for his life. The poor woman was near fainting, almost trampled by horses as she stumbled, but Watson lifted her as easily as a child out of the way and back to the cafe where he placed her in a chair, barking orders for brandy and ice water.

"It's all right, I'm a doctor," he said soothingly, holding her hand and feeding her tiny sips of water and brandy until she was well enough to sit up. He waved off her profuse thanks and motioned to James that it was time to leave, even as she continued to shower him with praise.

He merely tipped his hat to her and took his son's arm, walking away. Eventually they made their way back to Baker Street, just as the sun with dipping low in the sky. "Well, I suppose we can't even make the music hall now. I'm sorry, James, I wish I could have shown you a more enjoyable time," he sighed. "Your father is quite boring, I suppose."

James stopped. He stared at him with eyes that were shining, but not with the randy excitement of the boxing ring. They were alight with a profound respect and admiration of the sort that made Watson's breath catch. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen. The most astonishing thing I've ever _heard _of. You were unbelievable!"

The praise continued until they were upstairs, where it began again when Holmes asked how their afternoon went. "And then he pulled out his sword, in the middle of the road! He didn't even care about the horses that were running them down," James said waving his arms excitedly as Holmes smiled around his pipe, listening. "The fellow ran off like a coward and Father carried her back! Just like that. He saved her life! Right there!"

"That's enough, James," Watson admonished, his ears burning with embarrassment.

"Nonsense. I want to hear more. Go on," Holmes said. "And when that's done, perhaps you'd like to hear some more of your father's exploits, as I know them?"

"There are more?" James asked, practically bouncing in his seat. "Oh, please yes."

"There's the tiger rug for instance," Holmes said, ignoring Watson's desperate head-shaking. "Whereupon he saved an entire village from a desperate man-eater. And then there's the case of the diabolical yardmaster who decided to lock me in a shipping crate and your father had to rescue me by guessing which one of hundreds I was in before time ran out. Of course we have the Crimson Gang battle where at five to one he took them on ..."

"Holmes," Watson warned. "A gentleman values modesty above valor."

"Yes, when it's his own. But to tell of another gentleman's valor..."

"I want to hear it!" James insisted. "I want to hear everything."

"Tomorrow," Watson said, as Mrs. Hudson entered with a tray of tea and warm milk. He ruffled his son's hair affectionately, feeling not quite so old and useless after all. "First a snack, then a good night's sleep - we'll turn up the fire in here for you to make sure you're warm enough - and then a hearty breakfast. Perhaps after our morning walk ..."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "The only reason you aren't wearing an apron is because you'll get feathers all over it, am I right, Mother Hen?"

But James nodded and smiled, not listening to Holmes at all, having eyes for that one shining moment, for his father alone.

o0o

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